Losing Weight the Easy Way
by Mela Sunstrong
Summary: Set after Body Swap. Rimmer put more than a few extra pounds on Lister's body. While Lister's been doing his best to trim down, the salad-infested road before him seems more than a little overwhelming, leaving him willing to try an alternate, if questionable, method of weight loss.


_A fun little one-shot I've been poking at on and off for a bit_

* * *

Lister lay on his back in Rimmer's bunk, being too exhausted to make the climb into his own. He'd just spent fifteen minutes (read millennia) working out in the gym with the hologram. After sweating through a series of wobble-armed pushups, limp curls, and half-hearted jumping jacks, the suggestion of a brisk jog was made. He summoned up the strength necessary to jump up, point out the porthole behind Rimmer, and tell him that an asteroid had just gone by shaped like the back of General Patton's head. Once attention was averted, Lister fled the room in the sort of 'brisk jog' favored by hungry zombies and the severely drunk.

He peered down at the reason he was putting himself through all this in the first place. From beneath the damp and sweaty undershirt he'd been working out in, his stomach emerged like the view of Jupiter cresting the horizon of Miranda. He'd always figured he would have a beer belly one day, the kind he could bounce his kids on when they were little, that, like old Saint Nick's, shook like a bowlful of jelly when he laughed. Of course, he'd always thought that he'd be old like old Saint Nick before getting one.

It wasn't his stomach that bothered him so much, but the extra flesh that oozed forth from before his armpits. It bespoke the breasts. Man boobs. _Moobs._ Beer bellies could be considered avuncular, but a flubby chest was just plain gross. For this, Lister was doing his best to submit to Rimmer's fitness regime.

"Ah, there you are, Listy!" The man himself appeared in the doorway, his 'H' mounted over a bright red sweatband that wasn't doing his hair any favors. "You shouldn't have run off like that without any warm-up, you were all out of form."

"Had to keep the blood pumpin', didn't I?" Lister said.

"You know you have to stick to the program. You see, after putting you through a few laps around the ship, I was going to have you do a full weight-lifting course, followed by a water aerobics session."

"Can't we save it till after lunch? I swear I won't move another smegging inch till I get some food in me. I'm starvin'."

Rimmer hesitated. He was taking Lister's health a lot more seriously now that he was back in his own body. He was all too aware that he'd screwed things up, as per usual, but that was something he'd hardly admit to himself, let alone to anyone else. So instead of making apologies, he figured he could make up for his failures by throwing himself into whipping his rotund roommate into shape. "I suppose a light meal wouldn't hurt. I'll get Kryten to fix you something, but I want you doing toe-touches in the meantime!"

Lister didn't get in any toe-touches, but he figured that managing to sit up before the food arrived had to count for something. He hoped it would be more substantial than what he had for breakfast. To a guy used to starting his days on cold curry leftovers and flat lager, a carrot and a glass of prune juice falls just a little short of satisfying.

Kryten arrived pushing a catering cart with two covered dishes on it. He bustled around the table, setting up the meal and keeping his head down. "Lunch is served, sir." He swept the lid off Lister's plate, revealing a leafy pile interspersed with hairy strands.

Lister stared at it. "What is it?"

"Sprout salad, with spinach leaves, and some nice sliced radishes and almond slivers. It's very nourishing, sir," the mechanoid replied. Lister grew less concerned over the salad when Kryten began filling his glass with a thick, foamy, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-green slime.

"Did you scrape that stuff out of the fish tank or something?"

"No, sir, it's spirulina," Kryten said.

"Sounds like the name of an opera."

"It's a type of seaweed, actually. It's just chock full of vitamins and minerals. Are you alright, sir? Your face is turning a very peculiar color."

"Me, I'm fine," Lister choked. "I just think that pond scum is an acquired taste I'm not really ready for right now."

"Oh, can I get you a glass of beet juice instead?"

"I think I'll stick with plain old water, thanks."

While Kryten rinsed his glass out in the sink, Lister eyed the other covered plate with suspicion. What new perversion of nature lay beneath that lid? Brussels sprouts? Low fat yogurt? Whole grain bread? He uncovered it.

Chicken parmesan.

Lister's mouth watered for the first time in two weeks. "Kryten, man, you're the best! I can't believe you snuck this by Rimmer for me. I have to admit, I never thought you could break your programmin' on your own like this."

Kryten yanked the plate back from him. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, I should have mentioned it before, but this isn't for you."

"Nope, it's mine!" The Cat swept into the room and joined them at the table. "I wanted to join you for lunch, buddy. I figured it'd cheer you up." Lister felt far from cheery as he watched the him tuck into the chicken. Cat was dressed in a bathrobe and a shower cap, having come straight from one of his incessant washes. He seemed to think that if he bathed enough, it would wash out the taint of having had Rimmer walking around in his body. "Aren't you gonna eat your food with me? I coulda stayed in the shower for another hour, you know. I don't_ have_ to keep you company."

"Yeah, thanks, it's really considerate of you." Lister gave his salad an unenthusiastic poke with his fork.

"So, how's the diet going, buddy?" Cat peered over at his plate. "It doesn't look like a whole lot of fun."

"...no."

The Cat shook his head at him in pity. "Man, it's really gotta stink not being like me. I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want, and I never have to worry about my weight. I mean look: you're stuck with a pile of rabbit food while I get to eat this delicious chicken. How awful is that?"

"Kinda less awful when you're not talkin' about it, actually."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Cat paused to carve a few more pieces from his meal. The reprieve didn't last long. "How long do you have to keep this up for, anyhow?"

"I dunno." It already felt like an eternity since he'd last touched a sugarpuff sandwich, and imagining a few more eternities on top of that seemed like more than he could bear. "I mean, I think I've lost two pounds so far."

"Hey, that's great, at this rate you could go from blimp to weather balloon in under a year."

"Thanks man, you really know how to encourage a guy, don't you?"

"That's just wonderful old me, doing my thing." Cat speared another piece of chicken, practically wagging it right under the human's nose as he spoke. "You know, I haven't seen you this huge since the time you were pregnant. Remember that? We couldn't even get by you in the corridor, you always had to back up and pull off the road."

"Mmhmm..." Lister's attention was fixed on the chicken at the end of Cat's fork, the tender white meat dripping with sauce and smothered in cheese. He swallowed a gob of spit as he watched it disappear behind long white canines. "Cat, d'you think I could have a bite of that?"

Cat pulled his plate towards himself protectively, shielding it with both arms. "No way, this is _my_ delicious chicken. If I gave you a bite, that'd be one less bite for me!"

"C'mon, would it kill you to share just a little bit? You're not exactly starvin'."

"And you could live off that pouch of yours for months." Cat untucked the handkerchief from the front of his robe and threw it down, huffing, "This is really insulting! I came here to brighten your day, not to have you to mooch off my food. I can bless someone else with my presence. Ungrateful monkey!" With that, Cat stalked out of the room, dumping the remainder of his chicken down the garbage disposal unit on his way.

Once he was gone, Lister hurled himself at the bin, only to find that the unit had already ground its contents down. All that was left was a smear of tomato sauce clinging to the inside of the chute, which he didn't hesitate to scoop up and into his mouth. He realized how dire his situation had become- normally he'd only root through the garbage for curry leftovers.

When Lister finally resigned himself to his salad, Kryten gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "There, there, sir, I know this is all very difficult for you."

"Why couldn't you have said 'no'?" Lister asked, spraying half-chewed radish bits as he did so. "It can't be all that hard, even to Rimmer. Especially to Rimmer. I mean, didn't you think for a minute that chloroforming a guy against his will might just be a little inappropriate?"

"I didn't want to do it, sir, I really didn't, but saying the 'N' word is as difficult for me as healthy living is for you," Kryten said while attempting to wipe salad from the front of Lister's shirt.

Lister smacked his hands away. "Look, this is just what I mean, you've got to start thinkin' for yourself. I mean, what if someone told you to turn off the ship's oxygenerators, or erase Holly, or delete all our savegames from Super Mutant Brawlers 9? You could be a danger to the whole crew."

"Yes, of course, sir. Can I get you anything else, sir?" Kryten said while staring miserably down at his molded plastic feet.

Lister rolled his eyes and forced himself to eat another bite. He might have to give a little more attention to Kryten's education in the future. The mechanoid was far too obedient for his own good, and if he couldn't teach him a little rebellion, who else in the universe could? Lister wiped sprouts from his chins and washed the rest down with his mineral water, thinking that perhaps he should do a spot of rebelling himself. His skills needed sharpening, and his stomach needed real, honest, grease filled, preservative laden food.

* * *

Lister crouched over the open grease trap in one of the ship's kitchens, using one arm to fish out a gunge-crusted can of leopard lager. He scooted the lid back over the hole with the toe of his shoe before giving the can a cursory rinse in a nearby sink. He managed to get most of the brown stuff off the top by drying it with the edge of his t-shirt, then popped it open and poured the fizzing contents down his throat. It tasted a little off, but that was probably just the smell of three-million-year-old used cooking grease affecting his senses. After going so long without beer, he was in no frame of mind to be picky.

Lister stopped himself halfway through the can. He wanted to save the rest to go with the a packet of poppadoms he had hidden away in the ship's library, on the shelf between_ Flat Earth Theory_ and _The Poet's Guide to Metaphor_. Rimmer probably thought he didn't know what a library was, let alone that he'd set foot in one.

Lister tip-toed through the hallways, checking around corners and looking over his shoulder as he did so. It was the middle of the night, and he wanted to be fed and in bed again as soon as possible. For one thing, he was exhausted. Rimmer had run him ragged doing weights all the rest of the day yesterday. He'd even included the skutters, each straining with its own miniature dumb-bell clutched in its claw. The hologram had conveniently avoided doing much working out himself, of course, so Lister couldn't be entirely sure that his better rested bunk-mate might not wake up and find him missing.

Lister stopped by a snack dispenser on the way. Rimmer had ordered Holly to rig them not to give him any junk food, but he figured he should try his luck anyway, in case he came across a faulty machine. On this ship, his chances were pretty good. "Could I have a crispy bar?"

The machine hummed. "You have requested an unauthorized food item. Request denied."

"C'mon, it's only one little crispy bar, where's the harm in that?"

"Request denied."

"Why not? What's Holly to you? Okay, she's your motherboard, but who doesn't disobey their parents now an' then?"

"Request denied."

"It's not for me, I'm getting it for the Cat."

"Liar! Request denied."

Lister was about to kick the stupid machine, but considered the unforgiving metal siding and gave it the finger instead. The food dispenser didn't appear to care, but it made him feel alot better.

All the noise brought on some very unwelcome attention. "Lister! Listy, where are you? You're not out stuffing your fat face on the sly, are you?" Rimmer's voice came from somewhere up ahead.

_Smeg!_ Lister did an about face and walked quickly back the other way. He didn't want to be caught beer-handed, and wasn't about to dispose of the evidence- he wasn't finished with it yet.

"He's probably sneaking a ciggy somewhere. Unless he's woken up extra early to go the gym? Lister!" Rimmer's voice sounded closer. Lister picked up the pace in an effort to lose his pursuer. He rounded a corner and came to a dead halt upon seeing the hologram standing at the other end of the corridor. The hallways must have confused the apparent direction his voice had been coming from.

Fortunately, Rimmer happened to be looking the other way. Lister took the opportunity to start creeping away, but the first step he took, his shoe squeaked against Kryten's freshly waxed floor. The two men stared at each other for a second, Lister frozen in mid tip-toe, a can of lager in his hand. He offered a weak smile, then took off down the hall with the hologram pelting after him who was shouting, "I knew it! Come back here and unhand that beer!"

While neither of them were athletes, Lister's added weight and sore muscles were working against him. He tried to make good on his head start by turning corners and running down side passages, but what he really needed was a hiding spot. He wrangled open the first door he came to and locked it behind him. Lister sank into a crouch with his back against the door, trying to keep his heavy breathing under control until he heard Rimmer run past outside, still yelling after him, "You'll be sorry for this, Lister! You're on sprout salad for the rest of the month, and I'm revoking your crouton privileges!"

Relieved, Lister took stock of where he'd wound up. It was a small medical lab, outfitted for check ups, treatment of minor aches and pains, and the issuing of pharmaceutical drugs. He figured he should probably hunker down here for a while, until Rimmer got tired of looking for him and went back to bed.

Nursing a few aches and pains of the empty stomach variety, Lister started rifling through the drawers and cabinets for something to eat. He'd settle for a packet of crackers, or someone's leftover sandwich, however mummified, even chewable vitamins if he could find any, but none of these things were forthcoming. What he did find was a bottle of pills with the words '_SCAT, FAT_!' marching boldly across the front in bright orange caps. The text beneath went on to declare itself 'the fat-flushing super pill'.

"This crap never works," he scoffed, but didn't put the bottle down. He was getting sick and tired of the whole diet and exercise routine, and the idea of a quick fix to his problems was appealing despite his doubts. He popped the cap off and took four pills together with the last of his beer. If they worked, they worked, and if they didn't, then no damage done, right?

He poked his head out the door to see if the coast was clear yet, but he could still hear Rimmer's voice carrying through the corridors. Drowsy and with nowhere else to go, Lister made himself comfortable on one of the examination tables, or as comfortable as could be expected. Even if his snack run had been a bust, the most he could do now was look forward to breakfast. He hoped the pills would work; things were getting really bad when he went to sleep at night dreaming of having a slice of whole grain toast to go with his morning carrot.

* * *

For his part, Rimmer barely slept a wink all night. How could he, knowing that Lister was somewhere outside of his supervision, chewing on God only knew what? So after lying around in bed until five o'clock or so, he went to rouse Kryten. It was time he set out to bring the prodigal pork back to the fold.

Four hours later, Rimmer consulted a diagram of the deck on his clipboard, checking each section off and penciling in appropriate notes as they made their way through the corridors. "Not in the library," he muttered as he wrote. _Flat Earth Theory_ had once been a favorite of his. "Although we did find some poppadoms in there. We should think about staking the place out, he might come back to get them."

Kryten waddled along behind him with a coiled jump rope in hand so that when they found Lister, Rimmer could put him through some criss crosses and double unders on the spot. He'd spent three of the last four hours sorely wishing that he hadn't left his broom closet that morning. "Sir," the mechanoid ventured, "Perhaps the fact that we can't find Mr. Lister means that he doesn't want to be found. He may be taking a break from you."

"But I'm his fitness coach! Taking a break from me is taking a break from the program, and he's already one kebab away from being back at square one again. Or squares one through four, anyway, I don't think he'd fit on one square."

"Are you certain you're not being too hard on him? Perhaps if you lightened up a little, he might be more willing..."

Rimmer stopped walking, right outside the door of a small medical unit. "Look Kryten, I might have gotten him into this mess, but don't let that make you think for a second I can't get him out. If I have to steel myself to be harsh, unyielding, and down-right cruel in order to help him, then so be it. You'll see, my way will be much better for him in the long run."

Inside the lab, Lister was roused from sleep by raised voices coming from the hall. The inside of his mouth felt strange, thick almost, much thicker than the usual layer of plaque growing around the stringy bits left after his midnight kebab. Peterson had once dared him to see how many marshmallows he could fit in his mouth at a time, but since marshmallows weren't on the ration list for third technicians, Lister did it with cotton balls instead. This felt alot like that, only without the digestive adventure that follows the swallowing of five cotton balls.

Something wasn't right with his eyes, either; they were stuck shut. He reached a hand up to rub them and felt something big and hairy land on his face. Spiders, really huge spiders, had hair like that. He clawed and swatted at the fuzzy mass, but his attempts to dislodge it only made his face hurt, and further drew his attention to the fact that his arms and hands were also thickly covered in fur. Lister tried to stand up, only to trip over his own leg hair and meet the floor with a muffled thud.

In the corridor, Rimmer gave Kryten a knowing look and, finger on lips, nodded his head at the door. He knew Lister couldn't hide from him for long. Kryten opened the door for him and he stepped through, ready to give Lister a piece of his mind. "I hope you're little midnight binge was worth it, Listy, because it'll cost you another week of..." The words died out when he saw he was addressing the wrong party.

A creature which bore a striking resemblance to a poorly maintained shag rug lurched to its feet and groaned. "Muhhrrrff!"

"Um, yes, it's lovely to meet you too...Thing."

"Ummmerrr! Hm nnnn!" Lister said, with his usual elegance of speech.

"I take it that's mutant-ese for 'I'd like to eat you now,'" Rimmer squeaked, and shuffled behind Kryten. "Do something about that, would you?"

"B-but, what if it eats mechanoids, sir?"

"No small loss, just keep it away from me!"

Although Lister was able to identify the voices, his hearing was too clogged up to make out exactly what they were saying. He waved his hair-entombed arms at his shipmates, still trying to speak through the fuzz in his mouth. "Gnnn! MMM! Euhhh!" The next thing he knew, both his wrists were lassoed together by a jump rope cord. He fell on his bum when he tried to pull his hands back, and Kryten fell down on top of him. An awkward wrestling match ensued as the two attempted to extricate themselves from each other and the rope. Through the veil over his eyes, Lister caught occasional glimpses of Rimmer hopping from foot to foot in the doorway of the lab.

Kryten emerged victorious, leaving the hairy horror tied with loop around its neck, under the left arm, and tied to the right leg. As the mechanoid backed off, he sent an empty lager can skittering with the back of his foot. He picked it up, his face creasing with dread. "Oh, dear, I think it's eaten Mr. Lister!"

Rimmer remained half outside the room, just in case. "Are you sure?" he asked, eyeballing the creature warily. "That thing doesn't look big enough, it's not even beluga-sized. We should flush it into space anyhow, it's probably one of the Cat's hair balls mutated, or an evolved dust bunny."

"Mnng," said Lister, as he wiggled in futility upon the floor. It was apparent that they didn't recognize him. Having been robbed of voice and of his remarkable looks, he would have to come up with some way of identifying himself. He thought for a bit, then began to hum.

"What's it doing now, calling for its mate?" Rimmer wondered.

"I do believe that's the tune to Rasta Billy Skank's hit single, '_Shake That Funk Trunk_'," Kryten replied, and bent down to study the musical fur ball more closely. "I think this is Mr. Lister!"

"Oh, come on, it isn't even half his size, and it's got a pelt that would do a grizzly bear proud."

"Just a moment, sir." Kryten rifled through a few supply drawers, turned up a pair of scissors, and carefully clipped the hair off of Lister's face.

Lister resembled himself somewhat better once he was free of the six-inch long eyebrows and lashes, not to mention the mustache that nearly reached his naval. "You don't what a relief this is, Kryten. That felt like being stuck under me Grandma's armpit."

"I'm so very sorry for tying you up like this, sir." The mechanoid began undoing the ropes. "But what happened? Did you forget your morning shave?"

Lister stood up carefully. "I really don't know. I had some pills last night, and  
my lager...that was some pretty old lager. D'you think it went radioactive?"

"You mean these pills?" Rimmer leaned down to read the_ SCAT, FAT!_ bottle that was still sitting on the counter. "As seen on TV weight loss pills? How many did you have?"

"I dunno, a couple of them. I figured I'd need it."

"You didn't even read the instructions, did you?" Rimmer scoffed. "It says right here not to take more than one every twelve hours, certainly not with alcohol, and this list of side effects is almost as unbelievable as you are."

"Lay off, Rimmer, it worked, didn't it? It just turned all the fat into hair." Lister patted himself down, pleased that his bulges were no longer of the fleshy variety. "Once I'm shaved down I'll be ready for an extra large curry pizza with prawns and onions. I'm droolin' into me beard just thinkin' about it."

"But-but, what about my fitness program?" Rimmer sputtered. In one fell swoop, Lister had robbed the hologram of all his meager power over him.

"Your fitness program's kaput, smeg-for-brains. I don't have to lift anything heavier than a six-pack if I don't feel like it. Can I get that hair-cut now? I'm startin' to itch."

Kryten was about to move back in with the scissors when Rimmer stopped him. "Just a nano-second there, Kryters, this looks like a heavy duty job. You'll take all day trying to hack him down with those, and we wouldn't want to keep Listy away from his pizza any longer than we need to." A wicked smile lit up the hologram's face. "The thing our little gimboid really needs is a wax-job."

Lister stiffened. "Kryyyteeen, what did I say about tellin' people 'no'?"

Kryten looked from Lister to Rimmer uncertainly before picking up the jump rope and advancing on the hapless human. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Lister, sir. You know how hard the 'N' word is for me."


End file.
